Never Seen Anything (quite like you)
by Snoweylily
Summary: DeBryn thinks Morse is an enigma. Morse thinks DeBryn is a riddle. Both men, so out of place in the police force, find an affinity with each other. Between muggings, hit and runs, masquerade balls, kidnappings and murder, the unlikely pair progress from colleagues, to friends, to eventually, perhaps, something more... And say the lad that loved you, was the one that kept his word.
1. Chapter 1

My 20-something-th fanfic and yet only my first one for Endeavour, shame on me!

In case you haven't already guessed it, this is a **Morbryn/Brose/Demorse/whatever-it-is-we're-calling-it-these-days** fic, set in the **third-person-point-view** with every **second chapter focusing on DeBryn, Morse, DeBryn, Morse, etc**. It *should* be about **20 chapters long** , if I don't go off script, and there will be blood, violence, tears, love, one decidedly impressive make out scene if I do say so myself, etc. etc.

So, hope you enjoy, and _I'll try to respond to any and every review/comment received!_

Rachel :)

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

Detective Constable E. Morse was an enigma.

That much was for certain, DeBryn thought, glancing over at the silent boy as he gave him a lift to Jericho. Their first meeting hadn't left him with a very good impression of the lad, all arrogance and hubris, walking onto the crime scene with a dismissive tone and prideful assumptions and-

"I'll take your word for it".

-apparently nausea.

"Squeamish, are we?" He had asked, relishing in the opportunity to knock the constable down a peg or two, "You won't make much of a detective if you're not prepared to look death in the eye".

A pause, and then-

"Find me when you're done".

 _The nerve of him_.

DeBryn wasn't terrible proud to admit he took longer than necessary poured over _that_ particular body, but the slightly irritated look on the man's face when he finally got back to his car was more than worth it.

But then-

 _Oh_.

That _face_.

The boy had a sort of… _unconventional_ beauty, he decided, all sharp angles and soft sides, not beautiful by society's standards, but still bloody _gorgeous_ in his own, unique way. It honestly blew him away for a moment, before he quickly collected himself and snapped out of it, "Entrée this afternoon, three o'clock sharp".

"You can give me your findings over the telephone".

 _And then that beautiful face just had to open its mouth._

"You know, there's a word for people like you, Morse".

"Is there?"

"Necrophobic".

The lad didn't even give him the courtesy of looking ashamed.

"A word for people like you too, I imagine… Anglo-Saxon, though, rather than Greek".

DeBryn did another take.

A brazen young constable _with half a brain?_

"Weapon's a Webley, Mark VI, if you're interested".

"455, standard army issue".

With _more_ than half, it would seem.

"Not entirely a fool, then?"

"Not entirely".

Then there was a slight smirk, just the bare upturn of soft lips, before "Any chance of a lift?"

Staring into those baby blues, he found it impossible to say no to the lad.

Which lead him to now, going out of his way to drive Morse to a random address in the middle of Oxford on the off-chance that it held some crucial clues on why the student had committed suicide by the riverside.

He'd bet five quid on Housman having some quote for a situation just like this.

* * *

He couldn't help but feel at least _some_ semblance of respect for the lad once he realised Thursday had taken him under his wing, however. DeBryn was no fool, he knew how spectacular you'd have to be to get the inspector's attention like that, and from what he heard through the grapevine, Morse had seemed to do so effortlessly.

 _Bastard_.

The pair worked well together though, much to the chagrin of the rest of the station, and DeBryn wasn't _too_ unhappy about seeing the lad's face again, all sun-kissed freckles and pouting lips. He only got to see even _more_ of him when it emerged that Morse was quite injury-prone and had a personal _vendetta_ against hospitals.

The cocky exterior dimmed down to something rather manageable, _Thursdays doing_ he suspected, and a sharp wit and clever mind emerged.

The boy was a genius.

Simple as that.

DeBryn had always been a sucker for intelligence.

* * *

And then the idiot had gone and gotten himself stabbed.

"Not too deep. Thankfully" He said, securing the bandages in place, "But a clean cut like that'll be a bugger to knit. It's far better gashing yourself on something jagged".

Morse scowled, "I'll bear that in mind next time I chase a _lunatic_ under the Bodleian".

 _Interesting_.

"What led you there?"

"An anagram. Well, double anagram… No alibi err badly, near by libra idol. Both phrases use the same letters".

"Bodleian Library" He realised, secretly awed, handing him a beaker of brandy, "Your health, surely".

Watching the detective down the drink in one gulp, he winced, "It's going to be tight and quite tender for the next few days. So, bed rest. And my finest Broderie Anglaise notwithstanding, don't exert yourself overmuch".

"… The girl's still missing" Morse said quietly, "I've got to get back".

DeBryn paused and glanced over at him, watching as he slowly put back on his jacket, unfortunately covering the tanned skin previously exposed in the process.

The lad was going to stay working, despite the injury, despite the pain, despite the fact he could take time off on paid sick leave _like every other constable would have jumped at the chance to-_

"Morse… If he'd decided to stab and not to slash, I'd presently be getting more acquainted with your anatomy, than either of us might care for- "

 _Wait, no, that sounded too sexual._

"-soon as not be heaving your tripes into a tray, if it's all the same… Not just yet at least".

 _Nice one, Max_.

* * *

He didn't see the strange intellect again until they were all pressing into a small storage closet, Chief Superintendent Bright included.

"Dr DeBryn".

"Gentlemen" He replied easily, eyes immediately latching on the young man staring intently at the floor and walls.

He'd caught sight of the blood, then, unlike the other two.

DeBryn rather thought that Morse's sharp gaze was hugely underappreciated.

"What have you got?" Thursday asked, snapping him back to the present moment.

"Not enough room to swing a cat, as you can see".

"What is that? A screwdriver?"

He nodded, "Driven into the right ocular orbit with some considerable force".

"Death would have been instantaneous?"

And now that inquisitive gaze was locked on him.

"More or less".

"No chance it could've been an accident?"

"Not unless he picked himself up and dragged himself in here" DeBryn couldn't help but reply sarcastically.

"There's blood on the skirting and on the wall" Morse added helpfully.

"Any idea what time?"

"Body temperature suggests about four hours ago. Certainly not so much as five".

"Just about the time Her Royal Highness arrived".

He watched as the young constable disappeared from view, clearly having picked up on something that the star-struck chief and world-weary inspector hadn't. DeBryn shook his head and quickly turned his attention back to his notes.

It wouldn't do him any good getting caught staring at the lad, after all, and Thursday amusing yet inappropriate comments were more than enough to keep him entertained for the moment.

"Watch what you're _doing_ , Morse. For God's sake!"

He looked up at the harsh beratement, only to find Morse wandering back into the dead man's room alone, head ducked awkwardly.

"… There is one other thing. Not that it's likely to be much use to you" He suddenly said, holding out the stop watch, "But _this_ was in his pocket".

DeBryn doesn't know why he gave it directly to the lad and not to his superiors.

Perhaps, because underneath all that standoffish attitude and rude remarks, there was a brilliant mind…

Or, perhaps, he was simply trying to become friends with him.

* * *

When he get's the call that Morse has been shot, the entire world tilts on its axes.

He doesn't know how he manages to drive there safely, heart pounding loudly in his ears, hands shaking, and his deceased mother's voice echoing in his head _you don't know what you have until it's gone_ -

Except Morse isn't _gone_ , of course he isn't gone, the bastard's too stubborn to die, and the case still hasn't been fully resolved yet so-

 _So._

DeBryn finds him in the sitting room, propped up against a hideous armchair, Strange on one side, elbow deep in blood, and Thursday on the other, frantically talking to the seemingly unresponsive constable who had one hand tightly clutching the rug and the other thrown over his eyes to block out the sight of all that _red-_

"Doctor!" Thursday snapped, and he quickly shook himself out of it, rushing forwards and all but collapsing next to the lad.

"Keep that pressure on the wound" He ordered Strange, before turning back to the inspector, "What happened?"

"The suspect, or, rather, the _murderer_ shot him. Revolver. Point blank".

"Where?" He asked, pulling from his bag a needle and thread and searching frantically for morphine, for opium, for _anything_ that would help take the edge off of what he was about to do.

"Just above the hip, right-hand side".

He came up empty handed.

DeBryn cursed loudly, and then startled as he heard a snort.

Looking up, he found the blue-eyed constable smirking at him, even as he held the rest of his body unnaturally stiff.

"Hopeless swearing's not something I wanna 'ear right now, doc".

His voice was hoarse, taut with pain.

"You need to get to a hospital" He responded, but the boy only shook his head, "Can't. Not now".

Glancing over at Thursday resulted in a shake of the head and then a nod at the wound.

He tried again.

"I don't have anything for the _pain_ , Morse. And this is going to hurt. _A lot_ ".

The lad remained resolute.

DeBryn had to admire his courage.

"… Okay" He finally said, "Okay, I'll just… here-"

Taking off his belt, the constable took it with shaking hands, confused.

"It's leather; tough" He replied, "… It'll stop you breaking your teeth at least".

Thursday inhaled sharply.

Strange looked sick.

Morse simply folded it in half and bit down on the strap, _hard._

Shuffling closer, the pathologist carefully peeled back the lad's blood-soaked shirt.

He was tempted to make a joke about removing his clothes and _I didn't even have to buy you dinner first!_ but based on Strange's shell-shocked look and Thursday's pinched expression, it wasn't the right time.

Telling the inspector to hold the boy down, he switched places with the police constable, steady hands threading the needle before-

Counting down from three, he braced himself.

Twenty minutes later, he quickly followed Strange as he led the pain-stricken detective down the steps of their murderer's home, every movement pulling a low groan from the lad, and every low groan pulling at DeBryn's heart strings.

"I've made as best a running repair as I can, but you _really_ need to go to Casualty" He insisted, half-jogging to remain level side-by-side with the pair, but Morse continued to shake his head with a harsh "I don't have _time_ " and the doctor found that he could do _nothing_ , nothing but stand by the gateway and watch, _terrified_ , as the self-sacrificing breath-taking _idiot_ limped away.

* * *

 _So yes_ , he finally concluded, _Detective Constable E. Morse really was an enigma_.

A brazen, unprofessional, rude _martyr_ with a sharp tongue, a brilliant mind, and a _kind_ heart, a contradiction of terms and traits, a _paradox_ in his own right and-

-and a paradox that one Maximillian DeBryn was _very_ interested in getting to know indeed.

Bent over the most recent body to have graced his table, a scalpel in one hand and a liver in the other, he suddenly sat back and paused as that Housman quote finally struck him.

 _Night holds Hippolytus the pure of stain, Diana steads him nothing, he must stay; and Theseus leaves Pirithous in the chain, the love of comrades cannot take away._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Though he was reluctant to do so, Morse had to admit that Doctor Maximilian Theodore Siegfried DeBryn was something of a riddle.

And he had always enjoyed riddles.

There was just something… _peculiar_ about him, the constable thought, all soft smiles and wool sweaters on the outside, with razor wit and a sharp brain inside. A contrast, surely, and most certainly a puzzle for him to figure out.

The trouble was, he'd already been back at Oxford for a few months now, and he was still no where closer to finding out how the man came to be.

He _had_ found that he actually enjoyed the doctor's company, something which could only be said for a rare handful of people. It wasn't every day that he met someone who could quote A. E. Housman, after all. And while much of what he said flew over the heads of his surrounding colleagues, it always got an amused snort from DeBryn and an even more comical remark.

* * *

The few months in Whitney seemed rather dull without the pathologist to entertain him.

* * *

After he returned, Morse couldn't help but feel lost.

Lost because of his turbulent emotions, lost because of being out of the loop for so long, lost because _he didn't know how to act around DeBryn right now._

When he saw the pathologist on the rooftop, he was half tempted to turn back around and ask Strange to check it out instead.

But then that irritating little voice in the back of his head, that voice that usually, he could squash and put to rest, jumped to the forefront of his mind with the doctor's name on its tongue and-

 _-and Morse had missed him_.

Walking up to stand next to the man, he paused, unsure what to say, unsure if he should say something, it had been months since they'd last seen each other after all so maybe he _shouldn't_ talk _maybe_ -

Thankfully, however, DeBryn made that decision for him.

"Off heights, are we?"

"Lately. Funnily enough".

And just like that, they were back to normal.

"Not how I'd 'my own quietus make', but he wouldn't have known much about it. Instantaneous", he continued, glancing over at him, "Dead before his mind had a chance to catch up with the rest of him".

Morse avoided his curious gaze, instead, staring down at the glasses in front of him, "What do you make to these?"

"Commonly removed in suicides. Automatic gesture… And, of course, the added benefit in this instance, is that he wouldn't have seen what was coming towards him".

"Cause?"

"Something of a _salmagundi_ ".

And there it was again, the verbose words and theatrical flair, something that only Morse could appreciate. But why did the man do it? Surely, he knew that the rest of the force gave him blank looks and odd stares when he used such terms, and even more so when he quoted poetry. So, was he doing it just for him, then? To get his attention? To amuse him? Or was it merely to amuse himself? Knowing he was more intelligent than anyone else in the surrounding crime scene?

The constable frowned.

DeBryn didn't seem arrogant, self-confident, yes, as everyone should be, but not _arrogant_.

 _But then why-?_

"Nothing suspicious?"

"Only you" He glanced up at him with a teasing smile, "Morse".

Well.

Whatever the reason.

He was glad he knew this particular pathologist.

* * *

The case of the murdered children shook them all to the core.

Morse had seen plenty of death in his time, both in Carshall-Newton _and_ Oxford, and the majority of the time, the victim hadn't even deserved to die… but there was always something just that little bit more _real_ about it when came to dead children.

Standing in front of the old Victorian house, staring across the foggy fields and echoing rivers, knowing that he was alive, breathing, there to see the brand-new day when that poor _poor_ wretched little child was not-

He gave DeBryn a second look when he saw the devastation on his face.

"There was nothing you could've done" the doctor finally said, "The wound was grievous, mortal".

It was of little comfort.

"At least the fall…" He trailed off, "Adults, one takes the rough with the smooth. But this… You _find_ this piece of work, Morse".

He felt the man's stern gaze land on him.

"You find whoever did that" He said, "For _me_ , all right? _You find them_ ".

It was a testament as to how much respect he now held for the pathologist that he threw his heart and soul into the rest of the case.

He did it for the murdered children, he did it for Bunty, and he did it for DeBryn.

* * *

Taking a long swig from his glass of whiskey, Morse rested his head on the back of the chair, a soprano thrilling in the background.

Despite all their cases together, there was still very little he knew about the quiet yet confident doctor, a realisation that irked him to no end.

He was clever, that much was for certain, and he had good humour too. He was kind, caring when needed, always stitching him up after the latest tousle. But he could also be harsh, unforgiving, with scathing comments sharper than the scalpels he worked with.

He spoke to the man on a regular basis, it was all part of the job, after all, but he seemed to be just as private as Morse himself, and he hadn't gained much insight into his personal life. He didn't even know if there was a Mrs. DeBryn, or a _mister_ for that matter, as many doctor's took off their wedding rings at work so as to not get them tarnished.

And why was he even interested in finding out about his possible relationships, anyway?

The constable frowned, glass half-raised to his lips.

Was he interested in… ?

 _No_.

That was prosperous.

Yes, the man was intelligent, and amusing to boot, and, well, _yes_ , he was good looking, not that it even _mattered_ , but-

Morse shook his head, dispelling all traitorous thoughts. DeBryn was just a complicated puzzle, that's all, a great riddle that he wanted to solve.

Perhaps, even, the greatest riddle of them all.

So maybe a new approach was in order…


End file.
